


“Enough! I heard enough.”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Fictobers [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21972889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: The prequel and sequel to Day 28 of Fictober 2019.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Fictobers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524044
Comments: 140
Kudos: 111





	1. Boxing Day part 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Enough! I heard enough.”
> 
> Robin’s scarlet and refusing to look at him, typing as though her life depends on it.
> 
> Strike sighs and runs a hand through his untamed hair. This is why he doesn’t bring women to his flat. Partly. But Ciara’s brother’s staying at her place, so...
> 
> “I just bumped into—”
> 
> “It’s none of my business.”
> 
> “Why are you here on Sunday morning anyway?”
> 
> For the first time, she looks up, glaring.
> 
> “So it’s my fault?”
> 
> He can’t work out what’s going on. Why is she so angry? “No...”
> 
> Robin huffs a breath and goes back to typing.

At least the roads were quiet on Boxing Day, Robin pondered as she entered the outskirts of London. The trusty Land Rover had eaten up the miles slowly and steadily in its stolid way. As usual she was wrapped up well to protect from the draughts, complete with woolly hat and fingerless gloves, with only her own singing to pass the time, but she couldn’t claim to mind. She loved the old vehicle, and she loved it all the more because Matthew had hated it. There was a freedom to being on her own, boss of her own time, able to do what she wanted, even to leave early from a crowded, claustrophobic Masham Christmas and shrug off the guilt at her mother’s disappointment. She’d found herself longing for her own space, her flat, eager even to make the journey, to be back out on the open road, alone at the wheel, free.

Free to slob out, do nothing, read. Free to go back to the office. She dragged her thoughts back as they tried to wander off on a tangent that involved musing on how her work partner had spent his Christmas.

They’d said a muted goodbye three days ago, and exchanged small gifts. It had felt oddly awkward. She’d asked if he had any plans, and Strike had shrugged and said probably Nick and Ilsa’s, but not for long because they had family staying. She knew he’d be happy on his own, but his old friends nagged. It was easier to go along with what other people wanted, sometimes. She knew that only too well.

Still, she was free now. Free of the stupid holiday and its insistence that everything must be perfect and everyone must be happy, and that the only way to do that was to be surrounded by too many family members and too much food.

She chuckled at herself as London built up around her. You’re turning into some kind of Grinch, she told herself. But there were parts of Christmas she still liked. The tiny scrap of chiffon scarf, gossamer fine, that Strike had given her, was nestled around her neck beneath her polo jumper. She’d worn it all Christmas, tucked under whatever she was wearing. Her mother had looked at it a couple of times but said nothing.

She hoped his gloves had fit. She’d turned them over in her hands in the shop, trying to guess. She’d got the biggest size they had.

The streets slowly became more familiar, and she smiled as she approached her flat. Maybe tomorrow she’d pop to the office. She’d had some more ideas for a major case they were in the middle of, and she could get them jotted down, update the game plan. And, well, maybe she’d bump into Strike. A little Sunday morning work might turn into brunch, a lazy afternoon pint, a little Christmas cheer...

...

Strike took a deep breath, and followed Al into the bar. He was a long way out of his comfort zone in Mayfair, but he’d forced his half-brother to endure the Tottenham last time, so it was Al’s turn to pick the venue. Sadly that probably meant it would be stuffed with obnoxious toffs or, worse, the uber-trendy set. As long as they managed not to bump into their father...

He’d only stayed for lunch at Nick and Ilsa’s yesterday, and they hadn’t protested too much. Ilsa’s parents were staying, so there wasn’t really room for him to stay over. Lunch had been delicious, as always, the Herberts working together to put on an amazing spread, and Ilsa’s mum had chattered on about everyone they knew in Cornwall. Strike had known Ilsa’s family most of his life, and they were very fond of him, but it soon felt slightly cloying. He knew everything he said was being carefully stored up to be reported back to his aunt Joan, Ilsa’s mum’s best friend. It had been a relief to slump, stuffed full of food, with a whisky and a lit cigarette, in front of his own television in the calm of his flat and snooze off the far too much turkey he had eaten. He’d idly wondered what Robin was up to, vaguely imagining a scene reminiscent of a Hallmark film, with charades in front of the fireplace and Rowntree with tinsel on his collar. Robin with her halo of red-gold hair, limned by firelight. He’d shaken his head, declared himself an idiot, and attempted to concentrate on the Doctor Who Christmas special instead. It was that or the latest ridiculous goings-on at Downton Abbey.

The bar was loud and packed. Strike vaguely wondered why so many people were out partying on Boxing Day, but a glance around told him all he needed to know. The chemically enhanced could make Christmas last for days if they just never came down off their plateau.

Of course there was no real ale. Al ordered a bottle of red wine, the price of which was eye-watering but the quality undeniable, and they set off down a long corridor. A word with a discreet bouncer, a subtle slide of money, and they were in a private room at the back. This, too, was rammed busy. They stood at a tall table.

Strike grudgingly liked his half-brother. Al was the only one on the Rokeby side Strike could tolerate, the only one he had anything to do with. He just seemed somehow more down to earth than the rest of them.

Al grinned. “So, what’s new?”


	2. Boxing Day part 2

By the time she had unloaded the car and put all her things away in her little flat, including the cool bag of food her mother had insisted she take and that she’d be eating for days, Robin was exhausted. It had been a long drive. Relishing the quiet of her own space, she ran herself a huge bath with the bath salts Martin had given her, and looked forward to retiring to bed with one of the stack of new books she’d received. Chuckling at herself for being so old and boring in her twenties, she flicked the kettle on for a mug of hot chocolate. Might as well go the whole hog of indulgence. And tomorrow she would just pop to the office. Maybe she’d wear the jumper her mum had picked out for her from the little boutique in Harrogate. It was soft and rather snug.

...

“Hello, stranger. Fancy seeing you here.” Familiar perfume washed over Strike as a slender arm slid around him from behind and a kiss was pressed to his cheek. He turned with a grin, and Ciara kissed him on the mouth. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas to you too. I’m here with Al.”

She looked stunning, dressed in sheer gold, all long, long legs and impossibly tall heels that brought her right up to his height. She was tipsy but not too tipsy, and her arm lingered around him. Suddenly it was very hard to remember why he’d turned down her last suggestion that they get together. Something to do with wanting to keep out of the papers, but he was courting press attention by hanging out with Al in a place like this anyway.

“Oh, I love Al! Where is he?”

“Went back to the bar. There’s a queue.” Her gold dress plunged in the front, inviting the eye. Strike kept his gaze firmly on her face.

“Just order to the table, darling.” She winked at him. She knew how attractive she was, and she was definitely flirting, still touching him, her hand idly resting on his arm now.

Strike grinned. “We don’t command quite the level of service you do.”

“There are advantages to being a model,” she conceded. “And being blonde. Playing the airhead can get you a long way.” Strike remembered that she had a deferred place at Cambridge waiting for her. He wondered if she still planned on taking it up.

“Never tried it,” he drawled, and Ciara snorted, her eyes running over his thick dark curls. Her hand slid up his arm, toying a little with the hair at his nape.

 _Why not?_ He found himself thinking. The press had a lot of Christmas parties to cover, they’d be stretched pretty thin. He might be able to avoid getting too much attention. He might even manage to be mistaken for a bouncer again if he kept his face away from the cameras. It was really rather tempting, with her practically draping herself over him. He hadn’t been to bed with anyone since Lorelei, and he and Ciara had had a good night last time. She was confident, sexy and not in the least clingy.

Al returned, and the rest of the evening passed in a blur. Several of Ciara’s friends joined them, and Al was in full flirt mode. For the first time, Strike found himself wondering what it might have been like to have grown up with his father’s money, to spend his evenings out drinking incredibly good wine surrounded by beautiful women. He wasn’t sure he’d ever have preferred it to real ale drunk quietly in the Tottenham, but there was an undeniable appeal.

An hour later he found himself pressed against the wall in the corridor that led to the bathrooms, Ciara wrapped around him and her tongue in his mouth, and the decision was made.

“Can we go back to yours?” she murmured into his ear as he buried his face in her neck. “My brother’s staying for a few days...”

He didn’t normally bring women to his flat, but his hesitation was only momentary, and swept away by the heat of her breath in his ear. The building would be empty anyway, all the businesses closed up between Christmas and New Year. And thanks to Ilsa’s insistence on sending him away with copious quantities of food, there were no takeaway cartons in his bin. He even had passable whisky to offer her.

“Sounds good,” he murmured, and Ciara chuckled, low and throaty, as he kissed along her jaw.

“I’ll send the car back to mine and we can get a cab,” she said breathily as his stubble scraped her gently. “That’ll throw the paps off.”

“Good plan.” His hands had slid round to her waist, pulling her against him, and she grinned as she pressed her hips to his.

“You feel ready to go.”

“In more ways than one,” he agreed, grinning down at her as she stepped back as someone came down the corridor towards them.

She slid her hand into his, elegant nails scraping gently across his palm. “Let’s go.”


	3. December 27th part 1

Strike stretched, luxuriating in the afterglow of a pleasurable night. Long-limbed, impossibly beautiful, Ciara slept next to him. He rolled out of bed and reached for his prosthesis, attaching it just enough to be able to safely make it to the bathroom and to put the kettle on.

By the time he returned, she was awake, stretching lazily, catlike, beneath the covers, lit by weak winter sunshine from the skylight. She grinned at him as he slid back into bed next to her.

“I should go,” she murmured. “Paul will be wondering where I am.”

“In a bit,” he replied, leaning over her to kiss her shoulder, her graceful neck. “Bet I can persuade you to stay a little longer.”

“I know you can.” She chuckled, and then shivered as he shifted himself down the bed, his mouth moving lower and lower.

...

Robin told herself that it was the thrill of the case, the enjoyment she derived from her job, that put a spring in her step and lightness in her heart as she marched down Denmark Street. She had perhaps an hour or so of work to do, and surely she’d manage to bump into Strike in that time. Perhaps he’d be working too, and companionable quiet and mugs of tea would evolve into brunch at the Tottenham and a catch-up of their respective Christmases. She’d missed their quiet camaraderie as they worked cases.

The office was locked and dark. Suppressing a pang of disappointment, she opened up, turned on the lights, opened the blinds, bustled about switching on her computer and putting the kettle on. Perhaps if Strike heard her...

 _Stop it,_ she told herself. She would do her work and go home if he didn’t appear. She was being ridiculous.

...

There was a particular joy, Strike thought to himself, in pleasuring a woman who wasn’t shy to let him know what she wanted and how much she was enjoying it. Ciara’s throaty moans reverberated through him as he swept his tongue across her core, and his own arousal was rising fast to join hers. He’d intended this morning to be all about her, but she was soon demanding more than just his tongue, and he was happy to oblige.

...

It was some time later, stretched out next to her on the bed, truly sated now, that Strike remembered that he’d smoked the last cigarette in his pack last night. He hoped there was another packet in the kitchen cupboard.

“Cup of tea?” he asked, and Ciara chuckled lazily.

“Go on, then. And then I really do have to go.”

He grinned and rolled away again, dragging on last night’s trousers and slotting on his leg. He’d shower later after she’d gone. And then possibly head out for a very large breakfast, if he could find an open cafe.

Coffee and a cigarette first, though.

“Damn,” he muttered, hunting through the kitchenette cabinets.

“What’s up?” Ciara called. She was pottering around his room now, dressing.

“Left my spare fags down in my desk,” he replied, wandering back into the bedroom to snatch up his shirt from the floor. “Won’t be a mo.”

She grinned. “I’ll make the tea.”

Pulling his shirt on, Strike did up a couple of buttons in the middle and made his way down the single flight of stairs to the office, keys in hand. To his surprise, the lights were on and the door unlocked.

Robin. His heart lifted— and then plummeted. The walls in the building were not thick, and he’d assumed that he and Ciara had the whole place to themselves. Could she have heard...?

The look on her face when he opened the door answered that question for him.


	4. December 27th part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapters, so have another...

Strike cleared his throat awkwardly. Typing busily, Robin didn’t look up. Her utter focus on the task at hand was belied by the hectic spots of colour on her cheeks.

“Um, morning,” he said, hurriedly doing up more buttons on his shirt and trying to tuck it in too. He was not dressed to face his work colleague at all, acutely conscious of his prosthetic with shoe attached next to his bare foot, his riotous hair and generally dishevelled appearance. He imagined he looked as post-coital as he felt. He took a breath, and fervently hoped that she couldn’t smell him in the small space. He smelled of sweat and sex.

“Morning.” Her tone was clipped, and she still didn’t look his way.

“Um, just came down for my fags from my desk.” Strike moved sideways towards his office door, and hurried through to rummage in his desk drawers. _Shit, shit, shit._

He stuffed the cigarettes in his pocket and did up a few more buttons and dragged his hands through his hair. It was damage limitation at best. And he still had to get back past her. He could hear Ciara moving about above their heads.

He took a fortifying breath and ventured back out into the outer office. Robin’s stiff demeanour told him what he needed to know, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself asking anyway.

“Er, did you hear—?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, sorry, Robin. I thought the building was deserted.”

She was, if anything, typing harder. “Clearly.”

He had to know. “Um, what exactly—?”

“Enough! I heard enough.”

Robin was scarlet now and still refusing to look at him, typing as though her life depended on it.

Strike sighed and ran a hand through his untamed hair. This was why he didn’t bring women to his flat. Partly. But Ciara’s brother was staying at her place, so...

“I just bumped into—”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Why are you here on Sunday morning anyway?”

For the first time, she looked up, glaring.

“So it’s my fault?”

He couldn’t work out what was going on. Why was she so angry? “No...”

Robin huffed a breath and went back to typing.

There was an excruciatingly awkward pause, during which Ciara’s footsteps above could clearly be heard.

“Right, well, I’d best get back...” Strike muttered.

“Mm-hm.”

He wondered if she was likely to bump into Ciara on the stairs. “Um, are you going to be much longer?”

Robin went impossibly even redder, and stood, picking up her bag. “Oh, don’t worry, I have zero desire to hear any more!”

“Er, that’s not—” But she was already bending to switch off the PC, and he really, _really_ shouldn’t, after the night he’d just had, notice her fitted jumper and the way her trousers moulded to her arse, but he did.

Before he could work out if there was anything he could or should be saying beyond the apology he’d already given, she’d swept past him, snatching her coat from the rack, and clattered off down the stairs.

Strike sighed. He wasn’t often relieved to see Robin leave, but today he was. His shoulders slumped a little.

_Typical,_ he thought. _First time in months I get laid, for once I’m in a good mood, and she’s like that._ He huffed an impatient sigh, locked up the office and headed back up to his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to decide between changing tense for the drabble and writing the whole thing in the present.


	5. December 27th part 3

“I made tea.” Ciara indicated to his mug.

Strike managed not to shudder as he picked it up. It was very milky. “Thank you.”

“Found your cigarettes?”

He pulled the pack from his pocket and offered her one, but she shook her head. “Too early for me. But you go ahead. Did I hear voices?”

Strike lit a cigarette and drew on it thankfully. “Yeah, my business partner was in doing some work.”

“On a Sunday between Christmas and New Year? That’s impressive.”

Strike shrugged. “Yeah, she’s as obsessed with the company as I am.”

Ciara smiled. She looked every bit as stunning as last night in the gold dress, her heels dangling from her long, elegant hand. In the cold light of day, Strike felt old and ungainly by comparison.

“She was cross, I think,” he heard himself saying, still puzzled.

“At having to work?”

“She heard us.”

Ciara laughed. “Well, we weren’t exactly quiet.”

“No.”

She gazed at him thoughtfully. “So she’s here at work on a Sunday between Christmas and New Year, in the office right under your flat, and she’s upset that you’ve got a woman over?”

Strike shot her a sideways look. “It’s not like that.”

She grinned, challenging him. “Sounds like it’s exactly like that. What else could it be?”

Strike hesitated. He couldn’t think of anything.

Ciara chuckled softly and moved to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for a good time, as always, sweetie,” she said. “Now why don’t you give your business partner a call?” She winked. “But maybe not today, eh?”

Strike flushed a little. He had some thinking to do.

“Let me know if you want to hang out again,” Ciara added. Strike nodded, and she was gone with a flutter of her hand, carrying shoes, jacket and bag.

Strike poured his tea down the sink and sat down on his only chair. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, smoking and thinking.

...

Robin slammed her front door hard enough to rattle the frame, and went to her kitchenette to put the kettle on. Was it too early for wine? Yes, definitely.

She made hot chocolate, and on impulse slugged a little Christmas Baileys into it. _The time between Christmas and New Year doesn’t count for drinking rules,_ she thought.

She slumped onto her little sofa with the mug, and sat and stared at the wall. She felt almost tearful. Why?

She sighed. She’d been so hoping to spend a little quality time with Strike. She’d missed him.

 _It’s been three days,_ she told herself crossly. _You saw him three days ago._

And why should it matter to her who he slept with? She wondered who it was. Lorelei back on the scene? Someone he’d bumped into, he’d said, so someone he knew. Surely not Charlotte? The thought of that made her heart plummet. But why?

It didn’t really matter who it was. The fact remained that overhearing...that...had upset her more than it should. For a start, it had made her feel horribly naive and inexperienced. She and Matthew had always had a perfectly pleasant time. She’d discovered her sexuality with him, and there had been plenty of orgasms, especially in the early days. She’d never had reason to complain. But she’d never experienced anything that had made her make the sounds she’d heard this morning from the mystery woman, and for so _long_. She was desperate to know what he’d been doing, but she could never, never ask. Just the thought of it made her blush scarlet again even in the privacy of her own flat.

Then he had come down to the office. Why hadn’t she just left? But it had been too late by the time she’d heard him on the stairs. He’d clearly not been expecting to see her, dishevelled and barely dressed and so sexy it took her breath away. He’d started frantically doing up buttons and stuffing his shirt tails into his trousers, and suddenly she was wondering if he was wearing anything under the trousers and inwardly cursing herself for even thinking it.

And he’d always, even when sleeping in his office, managed to smell largely...normal. This morning she’d caught the scent of him as he sidled back past her to the door and it had almost knocked her sideways, pure musk and sex, almost animalistic. She’d had to escape suddenly, especially when it seemed he was planning to go back upstairs and carry on. Horrified to find herself aroused, responding to the sheer masculinity of him, she’d run away.

She sighed and leaned her head back against the sofa cushions. _I have a massive, massive crush on him,_ she finally admitted to herself. _I don’t want him to sleep with anyone else because I want him._

And he was, as ever, oblivious. Mercifully.


	6. New Year’s Eve part 1

“What’s up with you and Robin?”

“Nothing, why?”

“Come off it, Corm. You’re super awkward together all of a sudden. Has something happened?”

Strike sighed, gazing out of the window at the Herberts’ dark garden and longing for another cigarette. The sooner midnight arrived, the sooner he could wish everyone a happy new year and leave.

Ilsa was right. Things had been awkward with Robin for days. They’d met again in the office to go over her ideas for the case, and he’d attempted to broach the subject and offer another apology, but she’d brushed him aside, blushing again, insisting it was none of her business. Which, truth be told, it wasn’t.

So why did the very topic make her tense up and go scarlet? Sensing she’d just wanted him to stop, he’d changed the subject, moved back to safer territory, and she’d slowly relaxed. He knew she wasn’t hugely experienced - he strongly suspected she’d only ever slept with her husband - but surely she couldn’t be that prudish? It was unfortunate that she’d overheard, but he could be forgiven for assuming there was no one in the office. It had hardly been deliberate.

“Corm?” He could see the hopeful gleam in Ilsa’s eye.

“No, nothing happened,” he assured her. “Just, er. Well. I bumped into Ciara Porter when I was out with Al, and you know how it is. She came back to mine, and Robin came in to the office next day and, ah, overheard stuff.”

“Ciara Porter, the model? Bloody hell!”

“Yeah, um, it’s not the first time. Sorry, forgot you didn’t know. But yeah. I popped down to the office for my fags, and Robin was...weird. Embarrassed, yeah, I get that. I was pretty embarrassed myself. We, er, weren’t quiet, I thought the building was empty. But she seemed pissed off. I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“Christ, Corm. You cannot possibly truly be that oblivious.” Ilsa sipped her wine.

Strike frowned at her, taking another swig of his beer. “To what?”

“Oh, come on. Robin’s crazy about you.”

“No, she’s not. Ciara tried to say the same. We’re just colleagues.”

“There’s no ‘just’ about it. And I think you feel the same.”

Strike sighed and looked away again. Did he? His feelings towards Robin were too complicated to fit into any one category, any box he tried to put them in.

Ilsa nudged him. “So you shag supermodels now?”

He laughed, glad of a change of subject. “One model. Once. Well, twice now. Two nights, anyway,” he clarified, winking, and Ilsa rolled her eyes. “She was Lula Landry’s friend, I met her on that case. Hardly knew Robin then.”

Ilsa shook her head. “Oh, Cormoran...”

“What?”

“I could bang your heads together, I really could.”

...

“So, Corm tells me - and he’s super embarrassed - that you heard him shagging Ciara Porter?” Ilsa had dragged Robin out to the kitchen on the pretext of helping with snacks. The wine was flowing well and, buoyed up by alcohol, Ilsa was determined to get to the bottom of the tension between her old friend and his partner.

“Is that who it was?” Robin was surprised to find herself cheered slightly by this. Not an ex, then. Not likely to be ongoing. A repeat of a one-night stand from a couple of years ago.

Ilsa giggled. “Oops, did you not know?”

Robin flushed. “No. I didn’t exactly question him about it. None of my business.”

“So is that why you’re awkward around each other all of a sudden?”

“We’re not awkward.”

Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Yes, you are. Both of you, kind of formal and embarrassed. You’re blushing now.”

“I am not! It’s the wine.”

Ilsa looked at her searchingly, until Robin had to drop her gaze. She shuffled her feet a little.

“You fancy him,” Ilsa said at last.

Robin’s colour deepened. “I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You’re upset about it because you wish it was you.”

Robin grabbed Ilsa’s arm and dragged her over to a more private corner of the kitchen.

“Will you stop? I do not wish that, at all. I could never...with him.”

“Why not? He’s good, by all accounts,” Ilsa said airily, finishing her glass of wine.

Robin squeaked a little. Tipsy Ilsa was rather too straight-talking for her liking. “I’m sure he is, if what I heard is anything to go by. But he’s my colleague and friend, and that’s it.”

Ilsa giggled. “Aren’t you just the tiniest bit curious, though?”

Robin groaned and buried her face in her hands, her wine glass tipping. Ilsa liberated it from her before she could spill any, and took a quick swig.

“Oh, Ilsa, it’s all I can think about this week,” Robin whispered, giving up on the pretence. “I keep catching myself trying to picture what on earth they were doing to be so...enthusiastic.”

Ilsa giggled, then paused and narrowed her eyes. “Wait. You and Matt, you were... I mean, he knew how to...?”

Robin was quite scarlet now. “Well, yes, I had orgasms,” she whispered. “But not like _that_!”

Ilsa laughed, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, now I’m half wishing I’d heard, even though I don’t think I could bear it. I love Corm, but...”

She nudged Robin conspiratorially. “My friend Claire over there, the one with the two little boys, she slept with him a few times. She said he’s good. You should go for it.”

Robin sighed, wishing they were both more sober but knowing she couldn’t even have contemplated this conversation if she were.

“Ilsa, stop. I am not going to ‘go for it’, as you so elegantly put it. Even if I did somehow decide that that was a good idea, there’s absolutely no way I could compare, live up to his expectations. I’ve only ever been with Matthew, and if what I overheard the other day is anything to go by, we were clearly pretty vanilla!”

“I knew it!” Ilsa hissed, grinning. “I knew you’d thought about it. That’s why you’re embarrassed.”

“I told you, I wouldn’t know how—”

“You can learn on the job.”

“Ilsa!” Robin’s voice was a strangled squeak.

Nick appeared at his wife’s elbow. “Oh, good grief, what trade secrets is she telling you?” he complained, looking at Robin’s scarlet cheeks. “I was coming to offer you more wine, wife, but not if you’re telling Robin things you shouldn’t.”

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort,” Ilsa retorted, holding out her glass for Nick to refill. “I was just giving her advice on— Ow!” Robin had kicked her smartly on the ankle.

Nick shook his head, chuckling. “I’m going to leave you two to it, whatever you’re discussing,” he said. “You seen Oggy? Got another beer for him here.”

Robin buried her face in her glass again, and Ilsa shrugged. Nick glanced from one to the other with narrowed eyes, and moved away.

Ilsa rounded on Robin. “Right,” she said. “You need to make a move. No buts. Tonight’s the night, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Ilsa, stop it. I shall do nothing of the sort.”

Ilsa sighed. “Robin, forget about what you heard, what barriers you think exist. You two are crazy about each other.”

“Oh, no, he’s not—”

“He is. You just need to make a move.”

Robin stood and gazed at her friend helplessly.


	7. New Year’s Eve part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick’s turn...

Nick slid the kitchen door closed behind him and wandered across the patio to where Strike’s huge shape lurked in the gloom, tall and broad and enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He handed his old friend a beer, and Strike grunted his thanks.

Nick took a sip of his own beer and peered out at the dark garden, vaguely wondering where the cats were. They didn’t like crowds of people in their house, and would either be hiding upstairs or lurking in the shed, into which Ilsa had insisted he fit a cat flap in case Ossie and Ricky ever got accidentally locked out. She’d put a cat bed in there too.

He cleared his throat. “So, you’ve been out here most of the evening.”

Strike grunted again. “Few things on my mind.”

“Is that what it is? I thought you were avoiding Robin.”

Strike cast him a sideways glance and huffed a sigh. “Don’t you start. You’ve clearly been talking to Ilsa.”

“Well, she did mention it. But only because I asked what on earth was going on that you and Robin can hardly bear to be in the same room together.”

“And what did she say?”

“That you apparently shag models now. And Robin heard.” Nick winked. “Not your finest hour.”

Strike grinned out into the darkness. “It was in fact one of my finer hours, apart from Robin overhearing,” he couldn’t help saying, and Nick laughed and shook his head.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have to do something about the Robin thing, anyway,” he mused.

Strike turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Oggy, you can’t carry on like this.”

“I know.”

“So what was your plan?”

“Er, do nothing and wait for things to go back to normal.”

“And how's that working out?”

Strike shifted uncomfortably and turned back to face the garden. “It’s only been a few days.”

There was a pause while he lit another cigarette.

“You like her,” Nick said.

Strike drew on his cigarette and blew smoke across the garden. “Of course I do. Everyone does. She’s Robin.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. You fancy her.”

Strike made a small sound of annoyance and swigged his beer. Nick swung to face him. “Come on, Oggy. She’s a very attractive woman.”

Strike snorted a breath through his nose. “You’re not supposed to notice.”

“I can have an appreciation. And don’t change the subject.”

Strike took another drag of his cigarette.

“So what if I do?” he asked quietly.

Nick hesitated. He’d not expected his friend to admit to it. He never had before, despite how obvious it had been for so long.

“Well,” he began cautiously. “If you like her as a person, and you’re attracted to her...”

“Those are two separate things. She’s a friend and a valued work colleague. The—” Strike cleared his throat and swallowed hard “—attraction part is just getting in the way.”

“Oh, Oggy.”

“What?”

“They’re not separate at all. They’re part of the same package. She’s more than just a friend to you, and she has been for months. It was obvious when she was living here.” Nick chortled. “We saw you more in that month than we did in the previous year.”

“I was just being supportive. I was hardly going to dump her here and leave you all to it.”

Nick snorted under his breath, and changed tack. “Never mind the past. What happens now?”

“Nothing.”

Nick shook his head, frustrated. “God, Oggy. You fancy her. You work well together. You get along. And now you know, you’ve got quite clear evidence that she fancies you, too - enough to mind you seeing other women.”

Strike’s voice was low. “I’ve always told myself that nothing will happen as long as we work together. It’s too risky. It might affect our business, our working relationship.”

“It already is.”

Silence.

Nick shivered. “It’s too cold for me out here. I’ll see you back inside.”

There was no answer. Strike was suddenly very still. Nick stepped away, back towards the kitchen, leaving his friend to think.


	8. New Year’s Eve part 3

When Strike stepped back into the kitchen, intent on finding Robin, he still had no idea what he was going to say or do. But Nick was right. Whatever was going on, it was already affecting their working relationship, and that couldn’t happen. The situation needed a resolution, whatever that might be.

Robin wasn’t in the kitchen, the utility room or the living room. Strike lurked in the hall until the door to the downstairs loo opened, but it wasn’t Robin who emerged. He was starting to be afraid she’d gone home early when Ilsa passed him with a wine bottle, heading towards the lounge on a topping-up mission. She winked at him.

“Robin’s upstairs,” she told him. “Spare room, I think.”

Strike hesitated, and Ilsa nudged him fondly with her shoulder. “You should go up,” she told him, and Strike nodded reluctantly and started up the stairs.

He found Robin in Nick and Ilsa’s spare bedroom, leaning on the windowsill looking out over the garden. He paused in the doorway. She didn’t look round, but he knew she must be aware of his presence. He hadn’t exactly been creeping about, and the Herberts’ stairs were creaky.

“You okay?” he asked tentatively, and his voice sounded hoarse, his larynx tense. He cleared his throat.

“Just came for a time out,” she replied. “I did a lot of thinking in this room, after the Chiswell case.”

“What about?” Strike advanced into the room slowly, and skirted the bed.

“About Matt, and my dead marriage, and the future and what I wanted out of it.”

Strike moved to stand next to her, looking down over the dark garden, at the pool of warm kitchen light spilling out onto the patio.

“And what did you decide?”

Robin didn’t look at him. “I decided that I’d spent ten years doing and being what other people wanted me to do and be. And now it was time to be me.”

Strike nodded. “Sounds good.”

She glanced up at him. “It’s not that simple, though, is it?”

“Is it not?”

There was a pause. Robin sighed and turned back to the window.

“I was watching you, smoking out there,” she said quietly.

Strike frowned at the apparent non-sequitur. “Well, you know me and parties.”

“Yes, but even for you, you’re out there a lot tonight. You’re...avoiding me.”

His heart began to pound. Here it was. The discussion that would change everything...or make things go back to how they were. He didn’t know which he wanted more.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I just...thought if I waited, things might get less awkward.”

Robin nodded, still looking out of the window. “They probably would. Until the next time. Or until I start seeing someone.”

The thought of her dating sent a small stab though his heart. Fuck it all, she was right. Their working relationship was already struggling because he couldn’t keep his wayward feelings under control.

“And I found myself thinking, well, as long as neither of us gets into a relationship, we’ll be fine. We can work together and be friends and there won’t be any tension. And that, Cormoran, is ridiculous.”

She turned to face him, her blue-grey eyes challenging him. “One of the things I decided in this room during the month I lived here was that I wasn’t going to hide who I was and what I feel any more. And I’ve had no panic attacks since I started living true to that. But tonight I could feel that old tension, that whisper of anxiety, creeping in. That’s why I came up here.”

Strike stood and gazed helplessly at her, not knowing what to say.

“So, I have to say what I feel.” She took a deep breath, colour stealing across her cheeks. “I don’t like it when you date people.”

She dragged her gaze from his and stared out of the window again. “There. You can do with that what you like.”

Heart hammering, Strike took a shuddering breath. “Robin, that’s not fair,” he managed. “What do you want me to do with it?”

She turned back to him, a challenge in her eyes. “Well, I guess it depends what you want. You could tell me it’s none of my business who you date. Which is isn’t. Or you could...kiss me.”

Nonplused, Strike looked at her, drowning in her blue-grey gaze. Could it really be that simple? Could she...?

Doubt crept over Robin’s face as he hesitated, and her cheeks grew redder. He saw the moment the shutters started to come down, and he couldn’t, just _couldn’t_ , go back to—

“C’mere,” he muttered, reaching for her, pulling her into his arms. He pressed his lips to hers, chaste but powerful, pressing his mouth against hers even as his hand slid around her back to bring her body to his. She was all curves and soft lips, the scent of her hair, her perfume, filling his senses. For a moment he drowned in her, and then he drew back and gazed at her, trembling.

Robin stared back up at him, a tiny smile trembling at the edges of her mouth.

“Not like that,” she whispered. “Like this.” And she kissed him, opening her mouth to his, inviting him to explore. With a growl, he slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, unable to quite believe this was happening. He felt her press closer, her tongue answering his, seeking to explore him too.

She kissed him until he was trembling against her, and then drew back again, her eyes seeking his, questioning.

Strike smiled down at her, his heart hammering, his breath unsteady.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice a little hoarse. “I won’t date anyone.”

“Except me.”

He grinned. “Except you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s Lula done for 2019. Back to work tomorrow and next few weeks is hectic, but I’ll hopefully be writing again soon...
> 
> Happy New Year!


End file.
